Every snowflake is different, Lauren had told me, just this morning. So why do they all look the same? And so small…
I reach out my hand from the warmth of the fur-lined pocket, hoping to catch one of these glimmering, lighter-than-air shards. They slip through my fingers, taunting me.
I must make a funny sight, alone, by myself, dressed in a red cardigan, reaching out towards nothing. But that’s to be expected – I’ve been reaching out towards nothing, as far back as I can remember.
Not just snowflakes.
They keep slipping through my fingers and I finally choose to take off my glove, and a cold shiver rushes through my forearm as my skin instantly turns brittle.
Something rustles behind me and I turn around, half-expecting to see a bear rushing out towards me from the deep, Northern woods.
Nothing. Just me and the trees. And the snow, of course. Knee-deep snow.
I’ve always found snow romantic. Perhaps it’s a side effect of the numerous Sandra Bullock movies that I’ve watched, but there’s definitely something to be said about standing by yourself, knee-deep inside a snowdrift, with pine cones littered about your feet and the distant hooting of an early-bird owl echoing somewhere above.
And the snowflakes. Of course.
They’re getting thicker. Now, I can actually feel them. They don’t slip through my fingers anymore, although at the rate my fingers are burning, they might get bitten with frost before I ever have a chance to catch a snowflake.
I mull that thought over and decide to put my gloves back on.
It’s for the best, after all.
Who needs snowflakes?